A Whirlwind of Fun

I wrote a descriptive essay to share as an example for one of my classes:)  I thought it was fun, so I thought I'd share:)

            When many people think of their favorite place, they imagine some far-off land with gorgeous scenery or some picturesque city.  However, one of my favorite places is my crowded and cluttered house.  If someone else walked in my front door right now, they might think a tornado had somehow snuck into my house, terrorizing just this single household on the street.  Too often, toys are scattered about the rooms, along with hats, slippers, blankets, pillows, and books.  Instead of the disaster area an outsider would see, I see tangible reminders of quality time spent with my daughter, Grace.

            Probably the messiest room in the house is also the first a person sees—the living room.  This room is where I spend the majority of my time indoors with my daughter.  As I look at the “mess,” I recall all the fun we have each day, especially on quiet mornings.  My hands can still feel the cool plastic of the Little People toys that Grace and I use to play “house.”  She especially loves the tiny yellow-and-blue-clad baby.  My head can still feel the scratch of Grace’s sombrero that she loves to put on my head and the soothing gentleness of her baby-soft hands as she pats my face or runs her fingers through my still-short hair.  My ears still happily hum with the sounds of “Mommy!” and “Hugs!”  They can still hear my baby girl’s tinkling giggles and big belly laughs.  My mouth is still quietly humming the songs we sang today and thinking of the stories we read.  My feet are still dancing, remembering the countless times Grace and I danced to the “Hot Dog” song.  Thinking of our action-packed day, I remain unembarrassed with my debris-littered floor.

            Stepping over the stack of books by my rocking chair, I make my way to the kitchen.  Although we don’t spend as much time here, it is full of happy memories nonetheless.  Making my way across the room, I dodge our dog as he runs from my daughter, who is trying yet again to make him wear a hat.  The table is littered with crayons, paper, coloring books, finger paints, stickers, and other various art supplies used that day.  Cups line the counter, since Grace wouldn’t decide what kind of “didi” (drink) she wanted.  I can still hear the clink of pots and pans as I make my daughter’s favorite dishes (i.e. all food) and the sound of her yelling “D!” (dinner) from her high chair.  The smells of homemade pasta sauce, baking bread, fresh garlic, and other staples of our house permeate the room.  No matter how cluttered this room, it radiates the essence of home.

            Finally, I make my way up the stairs to the final stop of my daily journey with Grace—my bedroom.  Although Grace sleeps in her own bed, we lie down together in my bed first, winding down from the busy day.  This room is equally messy and evokes just as many memories as the rest of the house.  However, these memories are quieter and more relaxed.  Here I see the colorful patchwork quilt that Grace and I use to cover up when we snuggle.  Since this blanket has kept me warm since I was a little girl, it is worn-out and frayed, but it is also soft and comforting.  My skin feels the coolness of the pale blue sheets, in contrast with the warmth of my daughter lying next to me with her head upon my chest.  As she hugs me goodnight, my arms still recall the many times Grace has run to give her mom a big hug that day, warming me to my very soul.  My lips recount every word of our favorite nighttime tale, Goodnight Moon, and the final “I love you” of the night.  My heart just about bursts from happiness with each return of “I love you, Mommy!”

            “A child’s creativity is only inhibited by her parents’ willingness to clean up after her.”  Although I don’t recall the author of this quote, the message is one that continues to stick with me.  As someone who is a little OCD, I have always kept a neat and tidy household.  As a mom, however, I’ve had to learn to let go of pristine floors and clutter-free countertops.  Although I continue to fight the never-ending battle against the whirlwind of playthings, I also recall the myriad of wonderful sensations and memories that accompany them.  It is in this remembering that I’ve learned to let go.